Somewhere else

 

 

I felt like I should be alone in there—lights off and a hood over my head. Like a bird, put under the illusion of calm control. My talons were sunk in. But I wasn’t. I had a wealth of annoyance breaking my concentration in the form of my stout and chaotic manager. My friends were already preparing my corner.

My feet had begun their dance, lazily coming up and down to bad timing against the locker room floor, shaking the cloth of my shinny red and green trunks. I tried to watch their ripples and waves—convincing myself into a fake hypnosis. For some reason the echo of that mans words were stuck in my skull. “You’re gunna find the meaning of life in something trivial and tangible, David.” I dropped out that semester after his class ended. I couldn’t stop staring at my shorts shaking—making waves in an ocean of color.

My arms and shoulders began to feel that itch and twitch that couldn’t be scratched or satisfied. I shook my arms, increasing the pace of my dance. My blood was fucking rushing! My feelings were no longer feelings. Emotions began exploding into visions, both short and long. My stomach audibly curdled when ecstasy met my frenzied madness some where in my chemistry. My eyes snapped shut, and my head shot back. The lines had hit my blood—hit my brain. I looked around the room trying to keep my flesh from turning inside out. Those forest green lockers were so fucking annoying in contrast against the florescent white light of the gym.

 

We walked out into the hallways, and I punched every door lever as hard as I could. “Easy there, Champ. Hey, maybe this time you will wait till you get hit to let your fucking nose bleed, huh?” He grumbled it out so forced and scratchy, he actually set himself into a coughing fit, right there into my fucking towel. I looked down with a half-smirk expecting to see blood—that red on white. There was no blood. But my eyes, and stupid grin were met with quite and old man scowl. My face snapped tight. “Fucking, puke.” I mumbled. What was he doing? He was defining nothingness. And look at me I was about to show world something they wanted to see: Raw power… that man can be beat. I looked around at pudgy faces and weak men—men who sat next to their mistresses, smoking and drowning in scotch.

 

I climbed into the ring and instantly felt vertigo. I was ready to spill my guts against the canvas. I heard the ref in the background talking to my manager, “your boy gunna be alright this time round?”

I was on my knees padded fists on my hips, facing my corner. It wasn’t the chemicals had brought me to my knees. No, it was the rage. How the fuck had I gotten to this point?

Sometimes questions open flood gates… I was swimming in my self pitying blame. I ran my fingernails against the inner lining inside the gloves. Just feeling the hard, sharp cloth run underneath.

I wanted to focus in on the lack of anything in my life. I wanted to find a reason for raging emptiness… I wanted my vision to bring me to my grandmother’s apartment—that fucking smell—that fucking yellow-flower wall paper.

Strong hands had brought me to my feet again, and although they are not there anymore, I can still feel them. I can’t decide if they are comforting. But I feel them.

 

My visions have brought me some where… I am lying in the street and they have me pined down. The cold cement is wet against my back. One boy is sitting on my weak and lanky legs. Doesn’t he realize that they feel like they are going to fucking snap? The boy who is sitting on my chest has his face right by mine. His breath smells rancid. I tell him this and he cracks me in the nose. The blood that’s running down my lip isn’t warm. Why do they always say its warm?

 

He has come across the ring. He is hitting me. This man wants to destroy me. Why do I feel so weak? My arms and back feel like cold steel. I don’t want to fight this man. He is pounding my ribs with a vendetta. Leaning his skin against mine and working his feet towards the ropes. His skin is sticking to mine. Pain momentarily relieves confusion, and I push the man away from me. There is revenge in his eyes. Crack! He slugs his left across my chin, and vibrates my vision. It slows my recovery, but I know I must remember what I train for. Instincts kick in and I jab away some distance between us. This man wants to destroy me. Thud! With quick feet he has closed the distance and socks one into the pocket of my torso.

 

I feel weak because I feel no purpose. I feel weak because feelings I have, have no fucking meaning. I feel weak cause feelings have no feeling… all I feel now is this man making me feel like a bag of ground meat. This man obviously feels purpose. I want to tell him to stop punching me, and to go pound sand, but this man has found the meaning of life in his fists.

 

I don’t feel like winning this fight anymore. I don’t feel like surviving this fight. I know I can let this man end me now.

Now I will ask this man to end me with a look in my eyes. I will invade him with a look, and beg him to end me. The crowd is booing me. I hear that old fuck, yelling his insults “your fucking done, David. You are fucking done!” doesn’t he know I want to be…

But no, not on this mans terms. Not upon the Alter of his rage… against the ropes of mine. Yes. For now I must survive the fight. All I am, is a desperate man’s final attempt to take control.

It’s enough—enough purpose to jab twice. I can see the tired look in his eyes. He has given too much of his energy for two rounds. He gives me his beauty of a left hook right against my tender ribcage.

 

I am leaning forward. I am playing possum. It took a toll, but have they forgotten who I am? The man’s eyes are weeping his invisible weakness. The crowd doesn’t see it. They are about to.

My form is perfect—my speed, astonishing. It’s my power right that does the dirty job. It connects with expected accuracy, right across his glass jaw.

There are three pops… the first two with out question have come from his neck, the third might belong to me. He has collapsed. His back is arched inches above the canvas. His left leg is in a V—his right is straight and dead.

I knew it before the doctor ever announced it. I felt that abstract snapping sound of something ending somewhere in the air right in front of my face.

I turned my back. I don’t know why I wanted to look so cold and ruthless. I was dealing with a rush of disbelieving devastation. It wasn’t his life I intended to end—it was mine. Oh, what have I done?

Someone was crying…

“Doug! If for once, I could get some of your attention directed towards my lecture that would be wonderful.”

I was still half lucid—half lost…

“Doug…”

I think I heard her mumble something about me being a weird kid…

Dear journal,

 

Do you think I’m weird…?

Published in: on August 18, 2008 at 6:07 am  Comments (8)  

what guides us

So I originally wrote this with the last paragraph… Then I struggled for so long on whether or not I wanted it on there. I will let you be the judge.

A young man stares into a mirror—amazed at his own sense of self. What does his existence mean? His mind is nothing more than a lake; a small body of water, with the crashing ripples and waves of how he has been affected. How should this young man live his life? To what code of actions will he follow? Three words come to cognitive sight as his eyes narrowed in the mirror: Diplomacy, logic, and morality.

Glaring into the mirror the young man sees his many weaknesses gazing back at him. His own anatomy leaves him subject to the overbearing primal instincts of his body’s desires to survive, reproduce, and die. As humans, have we not developed our species evolution beyond animal desire? What will guide his intellect past the many weaknesses of man? The answer is logic—that basic innate system of cause and affect—as methodical and mathematical as one plus one equals two. His shoulders raise and pull back with pride as he knows he can apply logic into his interactions with the world.

He closes his eyes. The young man retains his optimism despite the world’s relentless pessimism to politics, government and future of society. But what of the intelligent conversations with some of the least diplomatic minds he has ever met. He recalls a conversation he had on the train with a rather large man with bottle cap glasses, from many years ago. The man’s brown shirt had sweat marks almost connecting soaked armpits with a dripping chest. He smelled atrocious. The young man sat and conversed for hours with the unarticulated beast, and through mixed up definitions and spit torpedoes coming of the man’s lips, the young man discovered sweet beautiful truth. The rather large man talked like a pouring river spilling into a lake—none of the care of choice words, and no stopping him. The young man drew in air and opened his eyes. He knew he must remain diplomatic—always developing his skills in dealing with others. He knew he wanted to make ripples in the minds of others.

The young man now put both hands on the edge of the sink leaning forward to take a closer look. He knew that he was ready to take hold of life. He wanted to charge forward like a sword wielding warrior, swinging at the injustices of life. He had the strength to hold the weapon but how would he know when to swing? Morality, the word echoed in his head. He knew he had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he always assumed that the world around him shared this understanding, even if it was not exercised. What worried him was where morality came from. Can we really trust our selves? His intuition was strong. He must have faith in self. He must allow his morality to be guided by how he will affect the world. His basic right and wrong must be lead by how he will effect the ocean. He must put others above himself, knowing that he was not as much an individual but a droplet water in a greater ocean of minds.

The young man took one last look—fixing his hair with a thin black comb, and straightening his silky tie. He felt ready. He could feel the roaring crowd’s powerful rumble through the thin walls. Shaking hands with everyone he walked by and getting fragment pep talks, concluded by a firm pat on the shoulder, he could now see the peering light from the open door to the stage. He walked through the threshold onto the stage and approached the podium.

Published in: on August 8, 2008 at 2:54 pm  Comments (5)  
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